


i've been all around this world

by Thalius



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Drabble Collection, F/M, Family Bonding, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Nonsense, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parenthood, Rating May Change, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: Collection of prompt fills from tumblr.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Cara Dune, Din Djarin/Omera
Comments: 12
Kudos: 76





	1. "Prepare to be amazed." - Din & Cara

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin. Come find me [@oriyala](https://oriyala.tumblr.com/) if you wanna send me some prompts or chat! (or, if I've changed urls, follow that to find wherever I'm at on tumblr.)

“Wow,” Cara remarked, shoving another one of the bulkhead panels in his hold closed. “You really don’t have anything to do on this ship.”

“I have dice,” he said behind her, though he sounded doubtful. “And cards, I think. Somewhere.”

She gave a pointed look around the deck. “Am I getting any warmer?”

Shrugging her sour tone off, he moved to a strip of netting, reaching through the webbed polyester and flicking open the lid of a container. His arm plunged into the box; a good deal of rattling followed as he searched blindly through it. After a moment, his arm retracted, and when she saw something fisted in his hand, a triumphant whoop formed in her throat as he opened his palm to show her—

“A stone?” Cara looked up at him, not bothering to hide her frown.

“One of the kids’,” he said, and moved passed her towards his bunk. The kid was seated there at the edge, watching them contentedly. She wished she could be so easily entertained.

Djarin stopped a few feet in front of the kid and held up the stone, drawing his two large eyes to it. Against the running lights, it was nearly translucent, like a small piece of violet sea glass. 

_ “Haa’tayl?” _ he said to the kid, and snapped the fingers of his free hand to make sure the kid was paying full attention.

Cara walked over so she could see more than Djarin’s back. He was swaying the stone gently in the air, and the kid’s eyes followed, enraptured.

“Is he gonna find us your dice?” Cara asked, and he gave her an impatient look that she saw clearly even through his polarised visor.

“Just watch.” 

Sighing, she leaned back against the bulkhead by the ladder and did just that. They had hours yet before they fell out of hyperspace; there was time to humour whatever bizarre rituals Djarin thought constituted ‘fun’. It was unfortunate that there was no beer around to help push down her standards, though.

Cara nearly jumped forward when she saw him toss the stone directly at the kid, a gasp of protest lodging in her throat. It sailed through the air, flying rapidly towards the kid’s forehead, until inches away from his little noggin, it stopped dead in the air.

The gasp turned to a sigh of relief as the kid’s clawed hands held the stone up above his head. She’d seen him do it before with the krill the other children would toss to him on Sorgan, but it still made her skin flare with goosebumps to see it. 

For a moment everything in the cabin was still. She was about to commend him on the trick when the stone reversed course and flew right over Djarin’s shoulder. He reacted immediately, pivoting on a booted foot and diving for the stone with an outstretched hand. He caught it—barely—after travelling halfway across the deck, and let out a huff of breath she thought might be a laugh.

“See?” he said, holding the stone up at her. He sounded so absurdly proud that she couldn’t help the smile that cracked across her face.

“I saw,” she assured him, and held out a hand. He tossed the stone to her and she caught it neatly in her palm. “Your kid taught you to play fetch.”

He glanced back at the kid. “I taught him,” he corrected her, his tone suddenly wary.

She raised a brow. “Is this what you do for fun, then? Throw shit at a baby?”

Djarin gave her another impatient look. “He puts things in his mouth when he gets bored. This keeps him occupied.”

She tipped her head, amused. “Looks like it’s a mutual affair.” Then Cara pushed up from the wall and waved him away, planting her feet where he’d been standing. “Okay. My turn.”

He took up her position by the bulkhead, and Cara repeated what he’d done—snapping her fingers to pull the kid’s attention to her, then waving the stone gently in the air until she confirmed he had a proper lock on it. 

“Now don’t,” she said slowly, still swaying the stone, “try to kill me when I throw this. Ready?”

The kid obviously did not respond, and after a moment of suppressing the reflex to not throw rocks at small children, she gave it a weak underarm toss towards the kid.

The stone obeyed the laws of gravity right up until it got within a few inches of the kid’s face, and then stopped. It was mesmerising to watch; it wasn’t like the stone hit an invisible wall or got stuck to a sticky patch of air—it just... stopped, as if suddenly drained of all momentum.

She was so fascinated by the trick that she almost missed the returning throw; this time the kid went low, the stone sailing right between her legs. Had she not been so astonished, she would’ve laughed at the fake-out.

Cara dove backwards, springing with both legs to throw her body’s centre of gravity up into her shoulders. The maneuver made her crash land onto the deck and disturb a stack of storage containers beside her, but she finally allowed her whoop of triumph free as she felt the weight of the stone impact her palm. Her fingers curled around it, victorious. The bruised shoulder was worth it.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, lying back on the deck with a huff. Djarin was watching her, his helmet tilted in amusement, and she held the rock up to him. “One for one,” she told him.

“Was that fun?” he asked, and it was her turn to give him a sour look.

“Yeah yeah.” She shoved up from the deck and dusted off her pants. “I’m gonna beat your ass this time, and your kid isn’t gonna save you.”

He snorted and shook his head. “There’s no guarantee you would’ve won that bet.”

“Let’s settle it then,” she said, tossing the stone to him. “Batter’up, pal. We got hours yet.”


	2. "You're an idiot. I've met smarter sandwiches." - Din & Cara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for amukmuk on tumblr.

It wasn’t the pain that woke him—the nausea festering in his gut was what pulled him back into the ugly reality around him. It was difficult to move his head right now, making him hope he didn’t vomit. Cleaning the inside of his helmet wouldn’t be possible for a while yet. 

He looked down the length of his visor, sensing movement by his legs but not feeling much—that wasn’t good. Cara was pulling off one of his cuisses, and he saw the bandolier usually strapped to his boot tossed aside by her leg, coated in blood.

His lungs contracted with the effort to speak, but only a cough came out. It made her look up, the whites of her eyes all too visible.

“Mando?”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, and coughed again. Glancing up, he saw the partially obscured side of a cliff-face. Had he fallen down here?

“You are—” An explosive breath came out of her, and then she was up by his side, her expression furious with fear. “You are the stupidest person I have  _ ever _ met.”

“What—”

She wasn’t interested in entertaining conversation. Expletives rolled out of her in a steady stream, so quickly he barely caught half of them. A few were in dialects he didn’t recognise. She moved back to his legs after confirming his pulse with a finger at his throat, her hands working as she attempted to bind some injury he still couldn’t feel. He was unsure whether that was because of field anaesthetic or nerve damage. If he’d fallen, he may have even broken part of his spine.

Really, really not good.

He listened to Cara move around, curses still being hurled freely at him. The rhythm of her voice was nonetheless soothing, even if the contents of her speech were anything but, and he found himself fading until she was hauling him by the armpits.

“So fucking stupid,” she said, her voice now by his head. “You are an idiot. I can’t believe you’ve survived this long doing this job. You’d find a way to injure yourself doing desk work for the New Republic—”

Her assault on his intelligence, judgement, and overall competence continued in force as she moved them along the cliffs. The motion jarred his leg enough that he could feel it again, and what he felt jolted his memory—his knee was shattered, broken into pieces by a baton.

“The b—” He coughed, loudly enough that she stopped speaking for a moment. “The booky—”

“He’s dead,” she replied, and a spike of relief flooded him. At least they’d get paid. “I killed him after he shoved you down here.”

“Thank you—”

“Do  _ not _ thank me, you moron.” She set him down, leaning him against the side of the cliff. They were under its canopy now, and more importantly, he could get a good look at his knee.

He found himself wishing she’d kept him prone. His right leg was a grizzly mess of blood, his knee so swollen that she’d had to remove his boot to get at it. It was wrapped tight now with fresh bandages, but the mess on either side of his pant leg was more than enough to tell him how badly he’d been injured.

“I have to get your things,” she said, a hand on his shoulder. Her skin was smeared with blood up to her wrist, and it left a crimson imprint on his pauldron when she pulled away with a huff. “And the booky’s body. Don’t fucking move.”

“I won’t,” he croaked, hoping she heard the amusement, hoping she heard the gratitude. He watched Cara’s back as she sidled along the quarry, and decided that splitting this job seventy-thirty her way was probably a good start in properly thanking her.


	3. “Can I open my eyes yet?” - Din/Omera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for bihetmando on tumblr. Set at some point after the show is finished, and has some very very mild ties to [A Real Backwater Skug Hole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611599/chapters/51533602).

He laid on her cot with his arm thrown over his eyes, listening to her rummage through the storage bench near the door. He didn’t mean for his breath to come out in a sigh, but the air in her—their, he reminded himself—hut was much cooler than the outside.

“I’ve almost found it,” she said, before muttering something harsh under her breath that he didn’t catch.

His mouth curled into a smile. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear your impatience from here.”

He wanted to reply that it was a wonder she could hear anything with how noisy the village was outside, but thought better of it. A pang of guilt made him realise that they were dawdling indoors while everyone else was helping with the harvest, but that guilt ended where the sound of Omera’s voice began. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed after a long moment of pawing through her things. “Finally.”

With a groan, she straightened up from the bench. He heard her soft footsteps as she approached, and then there a light tap on his wrist from her fingers as she stood by the cot. Pulling his arm away, he looked up and saw her smiling down at him, no less radiant for all the time between when he’d seen it last.

“Sit up,” she told him, patting his leg. Right. He had to focus.

With a groan of his own he rolled, planting his feet on the floor by the edge of the bed as she sat down beside him. Her weight sagged the cot, pulling them both close together, and he braced an arm behind her back to steady them both.

Looking down into her lap, he saw a swath of fabric folded up neatly in her hands. Reaching for it tentatively, he saw her smile up at him out of his periphery. “This is it?” he asked, and felt her nod as her nose brushed his cheek.

She pressed a kiss to his temple, delaying any possible response for a moment. “Yes. Take it.”

He let his fingers linger on her own as she passed the bundle to him. Once seated in his lap, he unwound the fabric from itself, expecting to find something buried beneath it. Instead, the fabric  _ was _ the gift—a crude jumper, made from a deep turquoise thread, with an excess cuff around the collar.

“It should still fit him,” Omera whispered, reaching over and rubbing the fabric between her index finger and thumb. “He hasn’t grown much.”

“No,” Din agreed, holding it up. The sunlight from the window filtered through it, making the fabric translucent; the jumper was made of much lighter material than the one the kid had on now, which would hopefully prevent him from trying to dive into the ponds as often. And it was decent craftsmanship, too, albeit a little over-stitched—certainly better than the limited sewing skills he had. 

He frowned and looked back at Omera. “Why would Winta be embarrassed to give me this?”

“She made it years ago,” Omera replied, her voice now somber. “She was intent on sending it to you for a while, until I told her that was impossible. I think she’d—I think she hoped you’d come back to thank her for it.”

His throat constricted at her words, full of another apology he knew she wouldn’t allow him to give her. He leaned into her, his temple brushing hers, and heard her sigh.

“I can thank her now,” he murmured, and felt her palm slip overtop his hand.

“You can,” she said back, just as softly. 

**Author's Note:**

> This will be updated as I fill prompts, which is to say sporadically. I generally use these as short writing exercises and as breaks from larger, more intense projects that require a lot more research, planning and editing. Thanks for reading!


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